


Your Pain, As Sweet As The Taste Of Your Crumbling Pride

by Zayrastriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hell, M/M, Oh Dean you poor baby, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean suffers so beautifully, pain glimmering in his eyes through any feeble veneer of snarled words and battered, rotting pride.  Alistair longs for the day when there’s no façade, when Dean accepts who he is accepts his place by Alastair’s side<br/>(in his bed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Pain, As Sweet As The Taste Of Your Crumbling Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing requests yay.  
> I've written this on the assumption that Alastair was once an angel. I don't actually know why but meh xD

At first, Alastair paid little attention to the rumours, to the whispers of _Dean Winchester is in Hell_ , because Michael’s vessel or not (and wouldn’t the demons love to know that, but there’s betrayal and _betrayal_ and Alastair still remembers being Alastiel) Winchester is merely human.

Merely a boy of not even thirty, hardened and broken by a life of never being good enough for John Winchester or little Sammy.

Alastair gives him a month.

 

~

 

It takes the first group of demons who have Dean in their “care” a year to admit defeat.

The second last two years.

It takes Alastair another seven to get sick enough of the begging to agree, reluctantly but with some disinterested curiosity, to take up the knife himself.

(Alastair can’t say how long it is before disinterested curiosity becomes frustration becomes grudging respect becomes determination)

(becomes _obsession_.)

 

~

 

Alastair always spares his eyes, leaves that pretty green gaze glimmering with unshed tears; always unshed, even when every cell in the boy is crying out in agony and sorrow as Alastair’s carefully chosen words pierce him in tangent with the hooks and barbs tearing at his internal organs.

(But Alastair is getting closer, and when he finally succeeds he might even be pleased enough to spare the rest of Dean’s face, to see tears track down soft, pale skin, dripping down the fine bones of his jaw.)

He says to the other demons (too many of whom he’s had to beat down, cruelly and mercilessly, for wanting to take those eyes – and that skin, that spirit – for themselves, because they don’t’ understand that Dean is Alastair’s to break, to tear apart and rebuild) that it’s because he wants to Dean to _watch_ what’s happening to him, whether it’s his ribs being wrenched from his body or the needle pumped full of molten gold being lowered into his arm.

That’s true enough, but not quite _true_.

Lilith comes by one day, asks the same thing with distraction in her eyes because Samuel Winchester is an even better hunter by himself than he was with Dean, fuelled by rage and pain that burns like a tamed flame, completely subservient to his will.

He shrugs.

“It’s more fun.”  Also truth, but not quite.  “Don’t you have other things to worry about?”

With a glare she threatens pain for insolence, but Alastair isn’t troubled.  He knows that even the first demon can’t harm a fallen angel, though he’s less an angel now – no Grace to speak of, not like Lucifer whose light shines through his prison, a constant, aching reminder of what he was – and more a super-demon.

Lilith, probably just to spite him, spends a few minutes poking and prodding at Dean (a knife into his throat to shut him up when he begins to insult her, a flick of the wrist that shatters every rib and sends sharp, jagged bone shards flying into his bloodstream).  Alastair watches, impressed and fascinated as always by the way real defiance shines in those resplendent eyes, like they always do when it’s not Alastair wielding the scalpel.

He’s always liked having his efforts appreciated, and he hates Lilith touching what’s his but knows that afterwards he’ll appreciate the _broken, almost broken, almost yours_ in Dean’s gaze.

Sometimes Alastair almost tires of the petty resistance, barely-there but _there_ , frustratingly so.  The reward at the end is what keeps him from simply reaching out and _shattering_ Dean; the knowledge that Dean will always be aware, Righteous Man or not, that he broke himself.

 

~

 

Alastair was wrong.

Watching Dean now that he knows what he is, knows that his place, is a million times better than wearing him down.  Dean is a natural, from the way he handles the tools with a practiced ease to the way he turns taking pain into an art form that Alastair appreciates as having the potential to surpass even his own.

Alastair was wrong, because now he wishes it hadn’t taken thirty years to break Dean, wishes that he didn’t only have ten years before whichever mindless angel has been tasked with raising Dean for Michael finally breaks through and _saves_ him.

Dean doesn’t need saving.  This is what he needs, all the cruelty and viciousness that he’s been repressing all his life, and Alastair.

Dean needs Alastair.

 

~

 

Two years after the first time Alastair pushes himself against Dean (pushes Dean into the wall) and fucks him on the floor to the soundtrack of the screams of Dean’s latest project, he wakes up to find Dean gone.

 _No_ , he thinks, and _Castiel_. 

 _Castiel, I will kill you_.

Dean needs Alastair.

And Alastair needs Dean.

_Castiel, brother, I will kill you, and then I will kill Dean, and you’ll never have him, Michael, because he is mine._


End file.
